Nothing like a flight on an airplane to bring on a quick-burn stuffy head flu virus. On the upside, judging from her screams when she sees the Blue Sucker Of Hate, Gillian’s lungs haven’t been aversely affected. (We only brought the BSOH instead of the Suckmeister 3000 because, really, what were the chances?)
In any case, we managed to make a few trips into our new home in Squirrel Hill, Pittsburgh, and take a quick tour of the neighborhood. It felt like home: two coffee shops, a bakery, a dozen or so restaurants ranging from pizza to gluten-free to Chinese to “Asian-style” (we call that “fusion” in Cali) cuisine, a state store with a reasonable selection and even a major grocery store only six blocks away. Best part? A swell playground two blocks up a very Nob-Hill-like promontory.
And the house? Well, left to its own devices, a tennis ball would definitely roll to a corner of the living room. Some of the locks are about as old as my mom, and it needed a good spit-and-polish, care of the fine young ladies at KD’s Klean Ups. But I’m looking forward to getting in there and Rocketing up the joint.
My attic office has its own bathroom; the basement has a root cellar that belongs in the Marsten House. So it’s got pluses and minuses. But the landlord is kind, the rent is right, the neighborhood’s fantastic, and IT HAS A PLAYROOM. Like a room where the girls can play, and there’s no Murphy bed, and that’s all they do there.
Check ignition, and let God’s love be with us!